


All the Pretty Things

by StealingPennies



Category: Primeval
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:30:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealingPennies/pseuds/StealingPennies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can buy anything in this world with money. But sometimes possessions aren't enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Pretty Things

Shoe shop assistant wasn’t exactly what Jess was looking for in a long-term career but the discounts were excellent and Jess, even if she did say so herself, was brilliant at her job. 

“I’ll see these in a 39.” 

The speaker was elegant, perhaps early to mid-thirties. Dark hair drawn back. Cultured voice. Carefully made-up face. She was dressed in the business suit of a banker or a lawyer, the kind that exudes power without giving any hint of personality, accessorised with good jewellery. The shoe she was holding was in the same vein, a classic black patent court with three-inch heel; high enough to be imposing but not so high as to render the wearer unable to walk.

“Of course, I’ll be back in a moment.” Jess smiled warmly at her prospective customer. It was a natural smile despite being the end of a long day. Or possibly because it was the end of a long day and in another half hour the shop would be closed and she could window-shop her way along Bond Street to the tube while eating chocolate. Yes, there should definitely be chocolate. Jess deserved a treat. The customer did not smile back. Perhaps she was having a bad day. Undeterred, Jess took the proffered shoe and hurried into the stock room to retrieve its mate. Done, she paused and then impulsively gathered up an additional box in the same size.

The woman’s eyebrows rose at Jess’s return but she said nothing as Jess dropped to her knees in front of the low leather stools, merely sitting down and kicking off her shoes using one foot and then the other as leverage. “Here we go,” said Jess pressing her hands along the woman’s foot to check the fit. “Perfect.” She had nice feet with a red manicured nails visible under the sheer tights. The heels showed off slim ankles and lightly muscled calves. She wore perfume - something floral but not sweet.

“Pretty,” said Jess. Customers usually liked you to comment on the shoes and compliment their taste. She had a feeling it would be a waste of time here but habit won out.

“I’m not interested in pretty.” 

“Efficient.” Jess amended. She frowned a bit. It didn’t really sound complimentary. As far as Jess was concerned shoes should be both fun and pretty. 

“You don’t approve?” There was interest for the first time and a piercing stare. Jess was being weighed up.

“I think you can be both,” said Jess, refusing to be cowed under scrutiny. She blushed a little under the intensity of the woman’s gaze. “Beautiful things don’t have to justify themselves.”

This brought a smile, albeit fleeting. “So show me what you recommend.” 

That was definitely a challenge. Jess was not going to back down. In fact, she had already come prepared.

“The same shoes but in red. They make a statement.” Jess slipped them out of their box. She drew one black shoe off and replaced it with its scarlet equivalent. “See what a difference the colour makes. Still smart but they draw the eye.”

“Perhaps.” 

That was as good as an admission. Jess beamed. Quality shoes never failed in their mission to brighten even the darkest day. The woman swapped the second shoe and walked a few paces, twirling in front of the mirror. The colour brought out the red of her shirt as Jess had known it would. She could tell her customer wanted them. It was just a matter of giving herself permission.

“Shoes to die for,” said Jess. 

That made the woman smile again, slightly flirty, something secret and wicked. “Or to kill in.” She became decisive. “I’ll take them both.” 

As the sale was rung up the woman pulled a card out of her wallet. “You do realise you’re wasted here.”

She knew that. Still, Jess accepted the compliment gracefully. “Any good assistant would have helped.”

“That is not what I meant.” 

Oh. _Oh._ This was more than shoe-satisfaction. Was it a pick-up? If so, it was unexpected. It wasn’t that Jess wasn’t hit on by random customers with flattering frequency but that the interest was usually more blatant. There was something she was missing. Some significant clue. A sudden awkward silence fell between them. Outside a taxi blarred its horn and took off into the traffic with a screech of tyres.

“I have a degree in computer science,” Jess blurted out. Where had that come from? She had a reputation for chattiness but not to the extent of spilling private business out of nowhere. But Jess wanted this stranger to think well of her. It mattered. She didn’t know why, but it mattered and Jess always trusted her instincts. “I’m job hunting. It was this or temping at some local government agency while I send out CVs. At least here I get staff discount and am not being bored to death by filing.”

“Two things you should know. One: degrees are just a starting point. Two: working for the government doesn’t have to be boring.” She wrote a number on the back of the card. “Call me.”

The name was properly engraved and not just printed. Jess traced the letters with her finger. Christine Johnson.

 

Jess had expected better from Whitehall. The offices were dowdy. Her work was mainly basic computing, accounts and, yes, filing but it meant she quickly got a handle on the workings of a great many departments, distinguishing the crucial arterial service providers from the high profile window-dressers that wielded very little actual influence. A lord on the board meant nothing in real terms. People were helpful. Christine was helpful when she was there, which wasn’t often. Most of Christine’s time was spent on some secret project that involved the military. It made her look fierce and exhilarated and at the same time a little scared. Jess never really asked about it. She was a little afraid of what the answer might be. Besides, there were so many things to talk about other than work.

It didn’t take Jess long to find that Christine had strategic alliances but few friends. Jess had lots of friends and more than a few strategic alliances but the latter were accidental rather than planned. Christine said that the admin staff didn’t count. She was wrong but Jess didn’t bother to argue. In Christine’s world things might be different.

 

Sharing a flat came about through circumstance. Christine’s apartment was huge and Jess had a room in a house with a shared bathroom. It suited and was affordable. Then her landlord received an offer to sell and it turned out to be impossible to find something equally affordable and near to work. Flat hunting was turning out to be a major headache as each prospective vacancy was either already filled or so completely unsuitable that a daily commute from her parents’ house in Kent seemed preferable.

“Stay with me,” offered Christine. “My place has plenty of room and you know we get on.”

“Could I afford it?” asked Jess trying not to sound too eager. Christine’s flat was in the high rent area of Kensington. 

“We’ll make it whatever you’re paying now,” said Christine, with the casual disregard of one for whom money was no consideration, “plus occasional cooking and shopping duties.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. You’ll be company when I’m here and it will be useful to have someone looking after the flat when I’m away.”

Jess moved in two days later. Despite the differences in age and experiences the arrangement worked perfectly. It was as if they had been friends all their lives. Slipping into more-than friends was equally natural. It wasn’t planned but it worked. They made each other happy.

 

Surprisingly Jess was the more experienced of the two. Christine had never really had time for relationships unless as a means to an end. 

“What am I?” asked Jess as warm water cascaded down on them in the giant walk-in shower.

“You’re the end to my means,” said Christine, resting her chin on Jess’s shoulder and slipping her arms around her waist.

 

“You’re amazing,” Christine told her as they walked along the banks of the Thames, passing the grey concrete frontage of the Hayward Gallery and the Queen Elizabeth Concert Hall on the way to Waterloo Bridge. The tip of Jess’s nose felt cold and there was colour in Christine’s normally pale cheeks. “You’ve been in the service less than six months and already you know everyone and people rely on you to work their systems. Of course, you’re nice so they don’t see past the smiles and the short skirts and take you seriously, but that’s their loss and one day they’ll realise their mistake.”

“What mistake?” asked Jess, torn between hurt and teasing. “I am nice.”

“Mistake in under-estimating you. You should be ambitious and thinking about where to move next.”

“Were you ever nice?” asked Jess, slipping her hand in her companion’s and ignoring the last statement. It was not that she was unambitious, but she had no real plan for career progression. Things would fall into place. They always did.

Christine touched her lips to the tip of Jess’s chilly nose in a fleeting kiss and considered the question. “I don’t think so. My sister was nice. She was a bit like you. She liked everyone and everyone loved her. Does it matter?”

Jess snuggled deeper into her woolly scarf. “You make it sound like a weakness. You’re nice to me.”

“That’s because I like you. Most people aren’t worth liking. It makes you vulnerable.”

She might have said more but they had reached Waterloo Bridge and the sudden burst of jazz from a dinner boat cruising along the Thames drowned her words. Jess imaged going on a similar cruise. Perhaps in the summer when they could wear hats and silk dresses. That would be lovely. She tightened her hold on Christine’s hand and allowed her mind to drift as they crossed over the bridge towards Embankment.

 

Jess was an open book but Christine revealed her background slowly in fits and starts. Jess learned not to make too much of each small disclosure. Above all things Christine hated the idea of people feeling sorry for her. She’d had too much pity after the IRA bomb that had killed her father and sister. The blast had destroyed her home leaving nothing left intact and no bodies to bury. Jess, who was too young to know the story, secretly Googled the news reports and then cried when the images came up on screen. The insurance pay-out had been substantial. Blood money, Christine called it. 

The flat had to be perfect. Christine liked to surround herself with pretty things. 

In that they were alike. Selfridges could be a day long enterprise starting with the Chanel counter and working up to the champagne bar by way of shoes and soft furnishings. While Jess had always had enough money to buy more or less what she wanted Christine was rich. She liked the power of knowing that she could own whatever she desired. Their tastes were similar and, both agreed, impeccable. Jess thought of the schoolgirl emerging from the wreckage of her life and understood the necessity of the weekly manicure and the black velvet cushions that would lay just-so on a pillow. These things were important.

Christine’s bed was covered in white lace and satin. “It’s like something from a bridal magazine,” said Jess, smoothing a ribbon out with her thumb. They lay side-by-side breathing in symphony. This is meant, thought Jess. Impulsively she leaned over and kissed the side of Christine’s face. Christine turned her head so their lips met. 

“Don’t leave me,” she said.

“Silly,” Jess laughed. “You’re the one who’s always travelling. I’m not going anywhere at all.”

There was a gun under the bed. It wasn’t new and it wasn’t a toy. Jess didn’t ask why. She already knew the answer. Christine never wanted to be defenceless again.

 

There were approximately 60 names on the list of cards that Christine was sending out. The cards themselves were impersonal as was the greeting Christine wrote inside. 

Jess had a smaller, but still substantial pile of cards with cute puppies and kittens on the front. Christine had screwed up her face on seeing them. Jess laughed. “Don’t worry your card will be different. These are for friends not business contacts. I know that you dislike at least 90 per cent of the people you’re sending cards to.”

“Ninety-five per cent,” said Christine.

Jess picked up the card from the top of the pile. “James Lester. Oh, I know that name, he’s with the ARC, isn’t he?”

Immediately Christine tensed. “What do you know about the ARC?”

Jess looked at her in surprise. “Nothing really. It’s one of those departments that people talk about in terribly hushed tones. Is he one of the five per cent?”

Christine pursed her lips in a little moue of distaste. “No. He’s too powerful to be ignored and too sentimental to be taken seriously. He’s an obstacle waiting to be removed.”

 

Jess and Christine’s Christmas decorations were expensive and beautiful and completely over the top. 

“Why not?” asked Christine. If they could afford a fashionable black tree and two dozen Murano glass baubles to set it off, why shouldn’t they buy them? Retail spending was vital for the economy. The tree was fake because Jess was afraid of insects. Even with an epi-pen she had fears of an allergic reaction. Christine said she didn’t care. Real trees had a habit of dropping their needles and were only properly proportioned in books and on film. Not everything was artificial. There were vases and vases of red and white roses that had been carefully lacquered with clear spray to make them last. They looked perfect but shattered at the slightest touch.

Under the tree was a stash of presents. Christine and Jess had a private celebration early because Jess was going home to her family for Christmas and Boxing Day. Christine was having Christmas dinner with relatives. There were some professionally-wrapped ‘cousin gifts’ in the collection but Jess could tell it was a duty invitation and acceptance. They opened their gifts to each other wearing new Christmas nightwear and wrapped in dressing gowns. A Charbonnel et Walker chocolate box lay open on the floor. Christine’s robe was untied, revealing the pale lemon silk of her nightdress. Her hair fell across her face and her firm breasts were outlined as she leaned forward, nipples pressed against the thin material. Lips curved upwards in an unselfconscious smile, she looked a world away from the woman Jess had first met less than a year ago. Jess had given her earrings of entwined silver and gold, small enough to be worn for work, but distinctive enough to catch the eye. There were also silk stockings, pearl coloured and embroidered with flowers up the back of each leg, extremely beautiful and extremely impractical. 

“They’re lovely, but where shall I wear them?” asked Christine. “We’ll have to go to the opera or a ball.”

Jess paused in unwrapping her own gift. “Wear them here. For me.” She finished untying the ribbons and eagerly ripped the lid off the box. The tell-tale red soles of Laboutin peeked out at her. A little squeak escaped as she pulled one shoe out of its tissue paper. “They’re lovely. I feel like Cinderella!”

Christine laughed. “Aren’t you going to tell me I shouldn’t have?”

Jess laughed back. “No, you should. You really, really should.”

Christine wore the stockings to bed and Jess wore the shoes. One crystal-studded heel got caught in the fine cotton sheets. Jess fretted over the small tear but Christine told her not to worry. They were only sheets. They would buy more.

 

Christine had been informed of the death of her family by a specially-trained policewoman who spoke slowly and softly and made her drink a cup of tea with extra sugar. When Jess’s grandma had died her mother had picked her up from school and everyone had been particularly kind for the next few weeks. There was no announcement when Christine failed to return home. No tea with sugar. No extra kindness. Christine simply…failed to return. 

Jess tried not to worry. It wasn’t entirely unprecedented. She knew through her work that the members of certain departments came and went on unpredictable schedules. A phone call or a text would be good but Jess knew that much of the work Christine had been engaged in had been covered by the Official Secrets Act and that possibly communication with outside parties was forbidden. But as the days went by it was harder and harder to ignore the truth. Christine had simply vanished.

The ministry stonewalled her. The police did not want to know. It seemed Christine Johnson was neither alive nor dead; she was simply unaccounted for. 

Jess continued to get up each morning and do her job with automatic efficiency. Keeping busy helped and she found that there was enough to do that she could stretch her time at work so that she simply came home and fell into bed. She used her computing skills to try to break into the personnel files but got so far and no further. The key accounts were all classified. Tears didn’t help. Not crying was worse. 

“How did you go on?” Jess had once asked Christine. 

“You just do,” Christine had replied. “You fake it and you fake it because there’s no other choice and after a while it becomes who you are.”

Time passed. In Kensington Gardens the tulips rioted in reds and yellows before fading and being superseded by banks of summer pansies. Winter boots were replaced by coloured courts and then by sandals. Jess practised faking it. Sometimes it worked.

 

“This is a desk job. Let me impress that upon you from the outset. Any field operations will be undertaken by trained military personnel. Understand?”

James Lester wasn’t large or memorable-looking but he had presence and a natural air of authority. Jess’s colleague had choked on her biscuit at his appearance in the records office and fallen over herself in eagerness to please. He refused to talk in Jess’s office but had instructed her to follow him into the one of the general meeting rooms that were hired out to different departments. It was only after she had trailed after him that she remembered he had no authority over her and no reason to seek her company. By that time she was being interviewed for a job.

“Why me?” she asked, confused. “There are plenty of people who could manage your systems. People who have been here longer and are much higher up in the organisation.”

“You come recommended.”

Jess kindled with pleasure at the praise although she knew she deserved it. “It’s true. I am really good.”

“Naturally or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” said Lester. Jess’s pleasure seeped away. Sarcasm appeared to be Lester’s default mode. He was not at all the sort of person she liked. He seemed almost determinedly antagonistic.

“Who put me forward?” asked Jess. “I feel I should know.”

The eyes watching her flickered a little. He continued talking about the research centre. “The ARC is different to any other department you will have worked at before. We do things differently but we get the job done.”

“So if I agree to join the department…” she began. 

He interrupted her. “Naturally you’ll have to have a formal interview.”

“Isn’t this it?”

The question made him laugh. It had an unexpectedly humanising effect. “Good heavens, no. This is just to decide if you’re the person for us. Naturally you’ll have a proper interview. There are always formalities in the civil service.”

Lester’s suit was beautifully tailored. He wore cufflinks and a silk tie. Instincts, Jess. For some reason he wanted her for this role. Abruptly she made up her mind. “I don’t make coffee.”

He barely paused. “Interesting but irrelevant. Other departments may work differently but coffee making skills are not amongst those I require in a systems management specialist.”

There wasn’t much she could say in response to this but it seemed that the interview was over. He escorted her back to her office shaking hands formally at the door as if sealing a promise. It came to her then with sudden clarity. Jess dropped his hand. “She said you were sentimental.”

 

The telephones were old-fashioned rotary dials, brightly coloured. In the centre of each one was a letter. She bought four, one for each letter of her name. They helped. A little.

 

The ARC was indeed unique. It contained both the most sophisticated communications systems that Jess had ever seen, alongside the most undisciplined and disorganised team of people that she had ever worked with. It was unlike anything she had experienced before. Jess loved it. More importantly, it seemed to her that she was meant to be here at the centre of operations using her skills to pinpoint anomalies and guide the field teams home. She fitted. Lester had dealt with all the paperwork to the extent of having the lease of her flat transferred into her name at the same rent. She tried to thank him but he had waved it away and spent the day being particularly irritating.

 

Christine’s birthday. Jess wore a new flowery dress. She had expected to spend the day crying but an anomaly alert meant full concentration on team logistics. In field terms it was a good day with no one lost or injured. When the alert was over Lester made her a coffee. She didn’t pretend not to understand his reasoning.

“You didn’t like her.” It wasn’t a question. 

“She was a power-mad bitch with blood on her hands. But that wasn’t all she was and presumably you saw the other side.”

Jess turned away. Sometimes she hated his honesty. A large white handkerchief was thrust in her hand. 

“Thanks,” muttered Jess from its folds. Footsteps retreated behind her. 

An email pinged on her computer. _Ironed as well as washed. JL._

 

The towels looked tired. She bought a set of six pale blue bath sheets and a purple vase just because she liked it.

 

Becker had the kind of good looks that should be in films. He knew it too but somehow that was part of the attraction. Becker hurt but he hid it well. Jess recognised the condition. She liked his vanity. He made her feel safe. She had gone through all the files as a matter of course and knew all about the disasters that had led to the Burton Foundation taking co-responsibility for the ARC. She had asked Matt about Connor and Abby and Sarah, but Matt had just warned her off the subject, saying, “Don’t go there, Jess, some things are better left alone.” 

 

The menagerie drew her. It was both fascinating and repellent. The mammoth paced in its too-small cage trapped in a future where it didn’t belong. Abby’s pet, Rex, flew towards her when she visited but quickly lost interest when she wasn’t the human he wanted. There were no future predators. They lay ahead waiting to be born.

 

Lester caught her following Becker on the security cameras. “Anytime you would like to get back to the job in hand, Jessica, that would be fine. I’d hate to think that we were all eaten by something large and carnivorous because you were ensuring Captain Becker was not attacked by the rowing machine.”

“I was not,” she said indignantly.

Lester stopped that defence with a look. “You were and on company time. Please contain your spying activities to after-hours pursuits. However, in the interests of saving you time and energy, yes, Becker is every bit as perfect as he seems which means you really don’t suit. You’re far too nice for each other. Your home life would be like Little House on the Prairie with guns.”

“How exactly is that a bad thing?” asked Jess, guilt fading to be replaced by irritation.

“It’s not, if you don’t mind a surfeit of sugar.”

“You’re the only person in the world who can make nice sound bad. It’s not. Nice is a good thing to be. I like nice.” Something stirred in her mind. An echo of a different conversation bringing back memories and feelings she was trying to supress.

His face expressed disbelief. “It was purely an observation based on your past dating choices. Whatever her other faults Christine Johnson certainly couldn’t be accused of being nice.” 

Oh. He was hateful. Hateful. A red mist descended. “Shut up,” she raged, “She was nice to me. And even if you knew anything about relationships, which you don’t because your marriage ended in divorce and you can’t even work your iPhone, you would be the last person I would go to for help or advice.”

Lester stilled. “Let me assure you that that muddled and inappropriate declaration brings me nothing but relief.”

Jess shook with fury. He was not going to get the last word. Not this time. “You talk about my choices. What about yours? Who are you waiting for, Lester? You keep those lockers like a shrine. Why can’t you admit your people are dead?”

“That’s enough.” It would have been better if he had shouted. As it was the words hit her like a bucket of cold water. What had she said? Even allowing for extreme provocation she had crossed a line. Lester was the most private person she knew and would probably never forgive her, let alone allow her to keep working for him. His face had gone completely shuttered. “I’m sure you have something to be getting on with.” Jess nodded. “Then be getting on with it.”

Jess steeled herself to apologise but Lester was in meetings all afternoon first with Matt and then with Philip Burton. She made him a coffee and then another when the first one went cold. It was still there untouched at the end of the day. 

Becker came by with a bar of Dairy Milk. 

 

The next day Lester greeted her as if nothing had happened. Jess took the cue. 

 

Another Christmas, ARC-flavoured and different from any Jess had known before. Lester had declared there was no money in the budget but had unearthed an ancient box of Christmas decorations from somewhere. The gold foil chains and paper lanterns dated from the 1980s and featured ghosts of old sellotape applications and permanent storage creases. There was an unnatural-looking sprig of mistletoe with all but one of the berries missing that Jess had hung over her desk. The cheerful anarchy was infectious. Later, when they all finished work for the holidays, there would be a trip to the pub. Nothing formal, the ARC didn’t work that way. Jess had a made a ‘Pass the Parcel’ and it sat on her desk. She caught Matt squeezing it with a sort of furtive eagerness. He put it down hurriedly and tried to look nonchalant when she sat down. 

“Everything all right?” Jess asked.

“Sure,” said Matt, moving to inspect the screens. “Just stopped by to see if all the arrangements were in place for later.”

As if Jess would fall down on organisation. She gave him a look and he retreated. An anomaly alert sounded mid-afternoon. The location was London, which was both good and bad. It meant an easy trip out but also the likelihood of civilian casualties. She focused on keeping the team communications open and finding the quickest way through the slow-moving traffic on the North Circular. 

About an hour after they had found the anomaly Matt called and asked to be put through to Lester. 

“Private line, Jess.”

She knew that tone and patched him through without comment or delay. Then others reported in and there were calls to be made to the local authorities regarding emergency repairs. She was co-ordinating the sweep-up teams as the main field units came back to base. Initial reports were encouraging. The anomaly opened to the future but any predators had apparently been contained. Of course, the property damage was extensive but keeping a lid on publicity was becoming second nature now.

“Jess.” Lester was speaking in her earpiece. “Jess, come up to my office.”

She grabbed her bag and smoothed her skirt. So pretty. Stella McCartney. She wore coordinating blue Mary Janes from Feud. The shoes were new, a Christmas gift to herself for getting through this terrible year. Becker passed her on her way into Lester’s office. His clothes were dusty and smelt of rust and decay. As always her spirits lifted at the sight of him. “Jess,” he said and stopped, face unreadable. He leaned down, kissed her on the forehead and smoothed her hair away from her face. That was wrong. Becker should be flirty or aloof. This was more openly emotional than she had ever seen him and it felt like goodbye. 

Lester indicated that she should shut the door to his office and sit down before he began speaking. The words made no sense. There was a buzzing in her ears. Each heartbeat throbbed painfully and the breath caught in her throat. Lester was holding her shoulders because she was shaking and she allowed herself to be pulled against him and let his breathing calm her own. It must be shock. There was the hot sweetened tea and Lester’s jacket around her shoulders because she couldn’t stop shivering. 

Then she was being led down narrow corridors to one of the small interview rooms near the base of the building. The light here was provided by long fluorescent strips that cast a sickly yellow glow on everything they touched. Breathe, she told herself, breathe. Matt waited for them outside one of the heavy metal doors. He was still wearing his field jacket with a gun held loosely by his side. There was a streak of blood down the side of his face. Lester pulled him sideways and into a low-voiced conversation. 

Jess turned the handle. And there she was.

Christine. 

Her beautiful Christine, battered and torn with her dark hair matted and hacked unevenly above her shoulders. She looked exhausted, bruised, and the clothes she wore were little more than rags. One ankle was swollen and misshapen in a way that looked like it might be permanent. Jess’s bag fell from nerveless fingers. The contents scattered combs, compact, money clinking against the concrete floor. Her lipstick rolled towards Christine’s bare foot. Christine bent and picked up the gold case, a look of wonder on her face. This moment, thought Jess, she had been living for this moment. A small pained sound escaped her throat. Good or bad fell away. It didn’t matter what Christine had done or how unsafe or painful or difficult the future would be. Anyone else would be second best.

Against all the odds, there was Christine putting on lipstick with a hand that shook. Her gaze met Jess’s, fractured but unbroken.

When she spoke her voice was steady. “Don’t you dare cry, Jess Parker, don’t you dare cry.”

***

Author’s Note: Written for The_Scabbard as part of Primeval Denial’s Secret Santa fest. I’ve mixed up your prompts a bit but there is a sprinkling of fluff amongst the angst, Lester being both awesome and awful, a traditional office party (that doesn’t actually take place), and a happy ending. There’s also, since I’ve tried to work within canon, a large dose of Jess/Becker UST. It will pass. Christine’s background is taken from Primeval Wiki. I hope I’ve done justice to the characters and given you at least some of what you wanted in your Christmas fic.  
Beta thanks to Lukadreaming. She rocks. Any horrors in the text were put there by me in the final rewrite.  



End file.
